“THIS HOUSE IS CLEAN!” -Tangina from PoltergeistIt started with a documentary.It ended with empty cupboards and a couple of starving dandies.

In the bitter cold of January, huddled in our warm library, bundled in Pendleton Blankets and turn-of-the-20th-century quilts, Jon and I decided that our Roku would be best used for a documentary marathon.

It started out simple...a documentary on Hearst Castle. Big, opulent, full of decadent celebrity parties...just like Chestnut House. This was good.

Next one up: “King Corn - A story of Two Guys Who Grow an Acre of Corn.”I like Corn (not Korn.)I like gardening.I had just staged “Children of the Damned Corn...”, this was going to be GREAT!

An hour and a half later I sat, silent, in utter shock. “Two Guys Who Grow an Acre of Corn”, my ass! It was a riveting, spinning, spellbinding story of the deconstruction of an American staple - an expose on the evils of High Fructose Corn Syrup. “H.F.C.S” = the villian, and all Americans its’ unwitting victims.

I went to bed with a feverish fear, that kind of fear where you know that clown doll was just on the shelf but realize it’s now under the bed, or that your manse is built on a ancient burial ground.

Yes, that fearful.

The next day I started investigating our kitchen, and, in turn, our lives.

Dog food, salad dressings, ketchup, our beloved Boo Berry Cereal, pasta, canned tuna, lunch meats, seasonings, Dr. Pepper BBQ sauce (brought in by the case from Waco, Texas), beer, pop, old Easter candy (yes, we still had some in our cabinet), all full of High Fructose Corn Syrup. This was bad. (Where was that small, creepy woman who could perform a “fructose-exorcism” on our home when we needed her?)

I threw everything away. As I looked into our bare larder, I was relieved.“ This house is clean!”Jon was the first casualty of my purge.

In the seven-plus years Ron and I have been together, we have built our relationship on the principle of “give-and-take”, an absolutely equal, harmonious partnership.

He has taught me humility, love, and self-respect. In return, I have taught him how to marinate steaks in Dr. Pepper, how to spot a fake Chanel purse from 200 yards away, how to pronounce “Plaza”, and the important role of poison in the garden.

Last week, as he was weeding our “edible” bed of basil, dill, mint, and tomatoes, Ron noticed insects had started eating the leaves of his prized strawberries.

Now, Ron imagines the Gardens at Chestnut House to be inhabited by fairies, gnomes, and the entire cast of “A Bug’s Life.” It’s his precious kingdom to rule over with a gentle, loving hand. I, though, see it for what it really is - a cross between the “Killing Fields” and “Silkwood” - an insect - laden battlefield where any signs of rebellion must be abolished.

If you don’t know, Sevin Dust is a completely man-made insect obliterator created in the 1940’s at approximately the same time as the Atom Bomb.

Ironically, it was my beloved Grandma Annabelle that introduced me to my favorite poison. I carry bucolic, enchanted childhood memories of following Grandma around her postcard-perfect yard in Great Bend, KS, weeding, hoeing, planting, mulching - and destroying all insect interlopers with a swift shake of toxic powder.

Any crudite served at Annabelle’s house was Russian Roulette, a scene from “Arsenic and Old Lace”, where a sweet, charming, apron-clad septuagenarian would serve up freshly - picked vegetables that looked like the cover of a seed packet, but tasted like they had been grown in the shadow of Chernobyl. (It wasn’t until I was well into my twenties that I learned lettuce shouldn’t have a “metallic” aftertaste.)

Building on this legacy of “Man vs. Bug”, I now sneak my Sevin Dust into the garden while Ron is away. With “Gopher-Rid” and “Slug-B-Gone” close seconds, Sevin has a special place in my heart as my favorite childhood poison. Its’ label states,”...KILLS EVERYTHING” - hard to argue with a claim like that.

Now, I have “skimmed” the on-package warnings regarding proper use, disposal, etc., but I read these in the same way I read Shakespeare, Nietzsche, and the Old Testament - I am sure there is some very important information in there somewhere, but there is just so much boring stuff surrounding it!

At dinner parties, as Ron unwittingly serves our guests plates of my pretty poison, all the while naively extolling on his “natural” methods, I hide my maniacal grin, feeling more “Addams” than “Adams”.

Let Ron continue in his fantasy - now you and I know the real reason his produce is so perfect (and insect-free.)

If anything sinister does happen, I am going to keep my mouth shut and let Ron take the fall.

"Little Man , Be sure to stop and smell the roses along the way!" My Mother, Marge, constantly quoted this to me as I rushed out the door. All the time. It was one of her oft-repeated phrases as I was growing up - one of those that you always ignore from your parent, like Lynn Anderson singing " I never promised you a rose garden" from an old lp. That worthless bit of advice that wasn't neccessary when I was scouring the yard for my Boba Fett action figure and my Tauntaun. A quote that I decidedly ignored 'til this year. I looked up the quote."Don't hurry, don't worry.You're only here for a short visit.So be sure to stop and smell the flowers."-Walter HagenThis is the actual quote.

(...So, Marge was a paraphraser like me - good to know.)

She was quoting a Golfer named Walter Hagen. A golfer... a golfer who is third behind Jack Nicklaus and Tiger Woods. Interesting - a sports quote was a guiding factor for my Mom in the 70's and 80's.

Mom always said that some things we get to do only once, and, as we rush by them, we'll miss a moment that will never be repeated.

Now, this sentiment is reiterated in many people's blog posts about this quote.

So, here we are in the present. My Mom has been gone for 17 years. I live in a 128 year old home - And I am approaching my 45th year of life.

Suddenly, and much more often, I am thinking about this simple quote from my past.

I rush...I am always in haste. I never put things in prospective. I worry. Will I ever "finish" Chestnut House? Will the basement's new supports hold up? Will I get the back of the house torn off? Can I learn my lines, both in life and on stage? Will I ever find a perfect stage prop that makes my Director happy? I pride myself on speed, and this drives Jon insane.

Until now. I am tired.

Last year we planted a Mr. Lincoln heirloom rose bush by the front gate, a gift from our dear Mary Traylor in honour of the passing of our beloved buddy Atticus.

It just sat there. No roses. No big blooms. Three gangly, thorn covered sticks emerging from the ground - until this year. This spring it decided to bloom.

And bloom it did.

New buds appear every day. Huge blooms open to the sun in frenzied ecstasy. Its' fragrance is sweet and lush.

The rose is known to symbolize love, (and peace while clutched in the talons of a snow white dove.) Thank you Stevie Nicks.

As I rushed down the stoop the other morning in my usual panic, Mr. Lincoln stopped me in my path. You could say he took my breath away. I could not believe what I was seeing.

Huge, platter-sized, roses jetted out of the thorny bush by the front gate. I sat down on the step and stared. I noticed a yellow bug crawling on a petal. I leaned in, buried my nose in a rose, and took deep breathes.

I was stopping to smell the roses.

My Mother was right - this moment relaxed and carried me, blissfully, through the rest of the day. Now, it slows me down during the week. Mornings now, I get up, relax on the porch, and drink coffee with the Schnoodle. I stop to look in Jon's eyes. (His eyes are a rich green, brown, by the way, with flecks of blue and a hint of amber.)

I take my time.

On his blog, writer Jasper Taylor states that it's an overused quote, verging on the edge of a cliche, but, boy is it true.

Many continue with their normal lives, frustrated at the continuous repeat of a cycle. Many go to sleep and wake to nothing, ending up very disappointed - both in themselves and their little world.

Later, Mr. Taylor goes on to paraphrase Judas Priest, "You don't have to be old to be wise."

Well, thank you, Mr. Taylor, Mr. Hagen, Stevie, Judas Priest, and my Mom...I am starting to cherish every moment, with my family and friends, in this beat up old Manse.